


What's In A Word - Hands

by Davechicken



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4498797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt - hands</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's In A Word - Hands

Stiles is _never still_. Never. There is always some part of him in motion, even if it’s a foot bouncing up and down, leg bent over the other. He vibrates whatever he’s sitting on, makes the whole world shake like the prey caught in a spider’s web. Derek can always tell where he is, by the motion-blur around him.

What’s worse is his **hands**. The teen relies on his hands like other people rely on oxygen. They have a language all of their own, one that supplements his words, tone, facial expressions. Certain gestures imply happiness, others warn of danger. Derek is sure if you tied them up, that Stiles would be rendered mute. Save for some babbled, incoherent noises, of course.

He watches as a pen dances back and forth between his fingers, twirling like a baton at a parade, or a conductor marshalling his troops. It squiggles down some note or other, and then goes to his mouth for chewing. Not for long. Next it’s used to rub at his back, then he performs something that might even summon an elder god if he’s not careful. It’s fascinting.

Eventually, it gets to be too much. Derek’s dizzy from the twirling, the invisible puppets tugged along by slender digits. He gets up and walks over, grabbing one wrist and twisting it up and behind the younger man’s back. Stiles yelps in protest, leaning forwards to alleviate the pressure, a stream of _what do you think you’re doing?_ cut off short by the lips wrapped around his middle finger. Derek suckles until his cheeks hollow, scraping teeth along it in a promise of something else.

Stiles whines, then goes floppy and content underneath him. If he had a tail, Derek is sure it would be wagging in delight right now. He nips at the fleshy base of his thumb, and then laps at the pulsepoint in his wrist. Stiles slams his head into the desk a few times, and Derek knows _just_ what to do next.


End file.
